


The Beacon Hills Diet (Does Not Include Cannibalism. What The Fuck, Santa Clarita?)

by CescaLR



Category: Santa Clarita Diet (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, At the same time, Attempt at Humor, BAMF everyone, Bromance, But also, Drugs, F/M, Gen, Getting Back Together, Heavy Angst, I think that's it - Freeform, Malia Tate Loves Stiles Stilinski, Manipulative Theo Raeken, Mostly Gen, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Post-Break Up, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Self-Hatred, Stiles Stilinski Loves Malia Tate, Tags Are Hard, Uhm, anyway, as in, as in marijuana, bc Joel, bc he's a little bitch like whoa, but it starts very, for now, happening in the same world, i'm making promises in the tags this never works well for me, i'm not very funny but I'm trying ok, idk - Freeform, is gonna be a thing, it not good, it's both shows, let's be honest here, let's see, my boy Stiles is Not Happy with Things which He's Done, oh Joel, oh well, ok? good, ok? ok, on that front, so like, sorta - Freeform, that was ur warning, they love each other in a bromatic way in this, uh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Stiles would honestly, really like to know.What.The.Fuck.~~~Stiles leaves after the argument in the rain, and he finds himself in Santa Clarita. But, well, there's one issue; there are dead body parts in the Hammond's fridge, and Stiles is so fucking done.To quote the movie version of Neville: Why is it always [him]?





	1. Like two realtors, one of which is undead.

**Author's Note:**

> random idea I had. Seems fun. Probably will continue.

There’s a dead body (chopped into various parts and packaged neatly into different containers) in the Hammond’s freezer,

Stiles is so fucking done with all these idiots’ shit, and they’re denying that they’ve done anything wrong, and he’s so fucking angry because they don’t get it, they don’t feel _guilty,_ and that shit _eats you alive_ (pardon the accidental pun, he’s still not used to the whole cannibal thing) and they don’t get how _terrible_ it is that they don’t feel like the worst fucking beings on the whole of planet fucking earth -

“ _I_ killed someone!” Stiles burst out, angry and frustrated and so, so _tired._ He just wanted them to _understand._

There was a significant pause – Stiles didn’t know whether or not there were crickets around here or whatever, but since he’s inside a house and unlike most of his – most of those back in Beacon Hills, he can’t hear that sort of shit… because you need to be outside, you know.

“Oh.” Joel let out after another moment’s pause.

“Were – were they bad?” Sheila asked, hesitantly. It sounded hesitant to Stiles’ ears, anyway. “Because we only kill bad people – and only because I need to eat them.” She added, blunt and from what he’s seen, blatantly, truthful. 

Seen blatantly because you don’t really expect to open someone’s freezer and find bags of frozen body parts. That was – unexpected.

“Oh… for fuck’s sake,” Abby sighed from her place at the doorway – or, entry point and, yeah, that about sums the whole thing up.

For fuck’s _sake._

* * *

 

Let’s backtrack a bit. 

* * *

 

So – it all starts in the rain.

“You killed him?” Scott asked Stiles, and Stiles couldn’t deny that fact. He’s lied a lot, recently – admittedly, mostly out of a fear of what this very person would think. Alongside his _Sheriff_ dad, of course.

Stiles doesn’t know what his dad would do. He thinks – he hopes, he thinks he hopes he knows that his dad wouldn’t…. turn him in, at least, arrest him, but…

Stiles can’t deal with the thought of his dad reacting in any way at all, be it a ‘good’ reaction or a _bad_ one. He most definitely won’t be able to take the reality… so he cheated. Copped out. Never told him, and left before Scott could.

Left before he could tell _anyone._ Stiles couldn’t, but… but Scott could. Because Scott wasn’t the one who stared at a guy and held the beam in his chest as he died, right in front of him. Scott wasn’t that person, wasn’t – wasn’t the type to just… stand there as someone died when he could have done _something._

“You killed Donovan?” Scott clarified, but he’s holding the wrench and – and –

“Where did you get that?” Stiles asked, and maybe it sounded dangerous or maybe not, he can’t tell because he can’t think – was – who – where did he leave it last who had it last who found it _fuck fuck fuck was it Theo –_

 **God,** if Stiles didn’t hate himself for Donovan, Theo would be _dead._

“Is this yours?” Scott asked. Stiles took it from him, the wrench, and stared at the bloodstain. More of a splatter, really, but it’s in there forever – or, well, the rain isn’t washing it away. He didn’t clean it in time. And – fuck, he’s a really _bad_ murderer, didn’t even get rid of the evidence.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott asked, and there are so many reasons –

_You seem a little off –_

_I think we’re all a little off –_

_think I might have stopped her –_

_maybe she had no choice -_

_There’s gotta be a point where self-defence is justified –_

_They're not the bad guys. They're the victims. We shouldn't be killing the people we're trying to save –_

“I was going to,” Stiles said, or maybe that was to “Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”

Either way…. “I couldn’t,” Stiles responded, at some point or another, to a similar question. The whole mess is a blur, really, that night in the rain. Too much – just… too much.

And once Scott went into the vet, Stiles got in his car. Punched the steering wheel, and it stung for a moment but it passed, and then he drove.

And drove.

And drove

And kept driving.

Stiles didn’t realise he’d left Beacon Hills until he found himself waking in his car on some back road with a sore neck and a vague recollection of an argument in the rain. Over the time he’d spent driving a mostly broken jeep without once having it break down or simply crashing because he wasn’t thinking about driving but rather –

_We can’t kill people! Do you believe that?_

No, nope, drive some more.

And so he did.

He drove.

And Drove.

And kept driving.

* * *

 

At some point, Stiles ditched his phone. He had enough money for a cheapo burner which he _knows_ the company behind won’t record the voicemails of, had enough money for a shitty burger at a shitty roadside diner near some stupid fucking attraction of The World’s Largest Blah-Blah-Blah, and then he was on the road again. He still wasn’t thinking, and that was bad, but he wasn’t dwelling, either, which was good.

Dwelling while out here, on the back roads and highways and away from most forms of human contact and all reminders of his past life except for the bag of lacrosse gear in his backseat and a wallet with some ID (thank god) and some money, and, oh yeah, a picture of everyone including himself and his dad (the pack, but he’s left home, so it’s not his pack anymore, and well, was it ever really his or was it not and was he just being an idiot would they all have thought it murder did _nobody_ think it was self-defence except fucking _Theo_ was Stiles just _deluding_ himself he went towards Josh’s dead and ripped-out-throat-ed body _way too fucking easily_ and looking at gruesome crime scene pictures in class is _not normal,_ why did he ever think that was _okay –)_

-

He threw that away at some point, too. Or, at least, he ripped himself out of the image and folded the rest then shoved it into the back of his glove compartment, never to be looked at again (or so he promised himself at the time, that wasn’t the case, of course, and he kind of wishes he’d never damaged it).

And then Stiles got back on the road.

And drove.

And drove.

And drove.

And kept driving.

* * *

 

“He was bad,” Stiles allows, and he feels like a child saying that. _A bad man – was he a man? He seemed so young when the life bled out of him – tried to hurt me. I promise I didn’t mean to._

“Was he a young single Hitler?” Sheila asked. “Because it’s always a good thing, killing them. Nobody to care about their death, and, well, one less Hitler.”

“Uhm… no,” Stiles let out. “He attacked me in the school library and ended up with a beam sticking out of his sternum.”

“Holy shit,” Abby said. “Jesus.”

Joel smiled nervously, tilting his head. Stiles had always found that expression, ever since this strange family decided the homeless eighteen-year-old on the sidewalk should sleep in their basement (not creepy behaviour at all, by the way), slightly unnerving.

Now, since he knows the man usually reserves it for times of murder talk or covering up, well. It’s more than a little unnerving.

“Now how did _that_ happen?” Joel said, somewhat pleasantly (if you can call this conversation pleasant in any way – Stiles, by the way, does not have that capacity) and yet somewhat, it still had that sense of _‘what the fuck?’_ that Joel usually delivered his words with in times like this.

“There was scaffolding holding it up,” Stiles admitted, heavily. “And I pulled the pin that was holding the scaffolding together. Boom, dead.” He gestured, vaguely.

“Well, if he attacked you, he deserved it,” Sheila said, succinctly.

“Sounds like self-defence to me.” Abby agreed.

“Abby, please attempt to only incapacitate, not kill,” Joel told his daughter, still nervously smiling at Stiles. “Learn from our words, not from our actions.” Sheila agreed. “Wait. No, learn from neither of those.”

Abby sighed, put-upon. “And they call this parenting,” She shook her head, took an apple from the fruit basket, and left the room. “I’m gonna go get Eric!” She called back, and then the front door slammed shut behind her.

“I wish she’d stop slamming the door,” Joel sighed.

“I know,” Sheila agreed. “It’s not like we raised her in a barn.”

“Just a slaughterhouse,” Joel continued, tone vague. Stiles couldn’t place it.

“Well, that’s great and all,” Stiles said. “But how about we get back to the part where you _kill and eat people and how that’s not okay?”_

“You just don’t want it to be okay because if it’s okay you can stop with your manpain,” Sheila stated. “You brood.”

“No, I do _not.”_ Stiles denied, vaguely horrified. If he’s turning into Derek, so help him, he will bash his own brains out and serve himself on a silver platter. Might as well not waste since she’s a _cannibal and all._

“What do you call sitting on the bed not sleeping and staring off into the distance?” Joel asked, seemingly genuinely curious.

“Thinking,” Stiles said annoyed. “I’m _thinking.”_

“All night?” Sheila asked. “You sleep less than _I_ do, and I’m _dead!”_

Okay, yeah, he will admit that that’s probably a problem. Possibly.

“Look,” Joel said, placing his hands on the table, flat against the surface. “Stiles. You killed a man that tried to hurt you. It’s self-defence; it was _necessary._ We kill awful people who do awful things because if we don’t, my wife will starve and die. And also maybe possibly go feral and start eating non-evil people, which would most certainly be bad and if you do that, please turn yourself into the police and keep our names out of it.”

Stiles flailed, something he’s managed to keep a lid on for quite a while. But this family’s sheer ridiculousness brings it out in him, sometimes. “I’m not going to _eat someone!”_

“You might,” Sheila said. “Never eat these clams,” She added, holding up a clam sealed in a square of plastic. Like you find preserved spiders and shit in. “They kill you and make you undead.” The woman explained, frankly.

“But they were blown up,” Joel said, “So you should be fine. So long as you don’t go to Serbia.”

Sheila nodded, seriously.

“I never planned on it,” Stiles said. “So I’ll just keep that on my list of things, yeah? _Never go to Serbia and eat clams which will make me a cannibal undead **zombie?”**_

“Ouch.” Sheila frowned. “That hurt.”

“Yeah, we don’t like that word?” Joel offered. “It sounds offensive.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asked, deadpan. “No, of course, you are.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re _you.”_

“I feel like that’s supposed to mean something.” Sheila mused.

“I feel like we should be offended,” Joel said, lightly, not sounding offended at all.

“Oh, _fuck off_ ,” Stiles said. “I’m the one who found partially eaten dead body parts in your freezer! I’ve been scarred for life!”

“No, you haven’t.” Joel looked at Stiles, weirdly. “If you forgot, you _literally_ just told us that you killed someone. If anyone did the mental scarring, it wasn’t us.” Sheila agreed.

“Not quite what I was going for…” Joel said, slightly awkwardly. “But okay.”

“We’re back!” Abby announced, apple nowhere in sight and now replaced with an Eric. She shoved Eric forward slightly then took her own seat.

“Hi,” Eric said, awkward as ever. He’s worse than Stiles was when he was sixteen, worse than Scott before the bite, worse than them pre-supernatural combined, and that’s really saying something.

And yet, he’s cool with cannibals. Some people have strange depths. Can’t punch a guy, can help hide a murder.

“So,” Eric said. He stopped there, of course, smiled awkwardly then stopped doing that and glanced at all four of the other people in the room in turn. “What’s… going on?” He asked.

“Stiles found out we kill people,” Sheila admitted. “It’s no big deal since apparently, he killed someone too.”

“It’s rather a big deal and I beg to differ,” Stiles returned, annoyed. “You eat people!”

“And you killed someone and wasted the dead body,” Sheila offered. “We’re doing better than you.”

Stiles flailed again. “What the _fuck?”_ He gestured.

“I ask that question every day. At least twice.” Joel commented. “The answer usually only comes to me when I’m high, though.”

“Can we stop talking about your marijuana habit and return to the fact that all of you are totally okay with cannibalism and murder?”

“You think we’re okay with it?” Abby said, incredulous.

“Yes, I’d rather prefer the stress of not having to lie to our cop neighbours,” Joel said, “Who are also our very good friends.” Joel paused, and sighed, saddened. “Ex-friends, in some cases.”

Sheila patted her husband’s shoulder, commiserating.

“Yeah, you tend to lose friends when you make murder a habit,” Stiles said, sharply.

“You would know, right?” Abby retorted. “Given that you’re making a home for yourself in our _basement.”_

“Be glad that Anne likes us now,” Sheila said. “Or there’d be questions.”

“Having a devout Christian sheriff’s deputy as a friend is honestly more useful than I’d originally expected,” Joel commented. “It all worked out in the end.”

“Of _course,_ it did.” Stiles snapped. “Because it’s all _hunky-dory_ here in Santa Clarita! Ignore the cannibals and the _dead undead!”_ He mocked.

“Your home isn’t much better,” Abby retorted, annoyed and vaguely angry. She got angry pretty easy, he’d noted. But she meant well.

“Yeah, from what you’ve said – which is still very little,” Joel added, leadingly, “It doesn’t sound the best.”

Stiles snorted, “Both places are awful. But at least there are clear ‘good’ guys there, unlike here.”

“Sometimes superheroes are the people you’d least expect,” Sheila said. “Like two realtors, one of which is undead.”

“And their daughter,” Abby added. “Can’t forget her.”

“Do I count?” Eric asked. “Or am I more like a sidekick?”

“If anything, you’re the love interest to the sidekick – who, by the way, is me, and holds this whole damn operation together and don’t you forget it -,” Abby said, interjecting in her own sentence. “But you’re more like… the useful potential love interest best friend who helps out more than you’d expect.”

“I’m cool with that.” Eric decided.

“Great,” Stiles said, “Now we’ve all decided our positions in life –“

“I’m Alfred,” Joel said, vaguely sadly. Stiles ignored him.

“- I’m going to go somewhere and think about this.”

“Could that somewhere be our basement?” Sheila asked.

“… no,” Stiles said. “What the fuck.”

“You willingly sleep down there!” Abby said.

“Because I’ve got nowhere else!” Stiles returned, angry. It was a sore subject.

“Oh.” She paused. “Right.”

“I’m going out-“ Stiles said and pointed warningly at them. “And if you try anything, I’m going to give in and call my dad.”

“What’s that going to accomplish?” Joel asked.

“He’s a sheriff,” Stiles said. “And if that’s not enough, I’ll call in Scott’s dad.”

“Again,” Sheila started, “What’s that going to accomplish?”

“He’s an FBI agent,” Stiles said. “And I have blackmail. He owes us a fair few favours.”

“That would be bad,” Sheila said.

“Oh, and if you kill me,” Stiles said. “They’ll know.”

“How?” Joel asked.

“Yeah that… doesn’t really make much sense.” Eric added.

“Trust me,” Stiles said. “If they still care… they’ll know. Like losing a limb.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sheila admitted. “Does anyone else?”

“You’re all idiots,” Stiles said. “You think zombies are the only thing kicking about?” Stiles scoffed. “Use your _heads.”_

* * *

 

Scott didn’t find out that Stiles had disappeared on them for a few days – and it was a few days too long. And so much shit happened – Theo messed up, they got Lydia out – or at least, Parrish did - Malia confessed to her plan with the Desert Wolf and then her plan to skip town after, start afresh somewhere new, Braeden revealed that she’s been helping Malia plan a trap that sounds like Stiles would find five hundred flaws in and three thousand ways in which it could go wrong, and Scott doesn’t know where Stiles is, so he can’t get him to do anything about it, but he couldn’t even if he knew because Scott told him not to worry about Lydia or Malia which really meant not to get involved because if he chose murder then _no_ and Scott’s talked to the Sheriff and the Sheriff is practically tearing his hair out because his son never came to him, never came home that night or any nights after, and now Stiles is gone and Scott _didn’t know._

Scott didn’t know he left the very same night as their argument. Scott didn’t know that that argument caused it. Not until now.

Not until he heard that voicemail.

* * *

 

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles said. He sighed. “I’ve already sent one of these to my dad. Malia too. It’s… easier, I guess, to talk to them. Maybe it makes sense why. Talk at them, really, because none of you are talking back.”

Stiles shook his head. “My fault, that.” He admitted, freely, but he closed his eyes and then sighed after. It hurt to say, but it was true. “This old shitty phone I’ve got,” Stiles continued, changing the topic, “Doesn’t store voicemails. I’m also going to trash it after this. I can’t – I can’t afford to… well. You – Dad, someone, will probably track it if I don’t.”

Stiles paused, cleared his throat.

“That is if you wanted me not to be gone.” Stiles closed his eyes again and leaned against the wall. “I’m not gonna give you the chance to make that choice, though. Because sometimes, Scott, there isn’t a choice.”

Stiles paused.

“Just mistakes you regret. Things you wish you could change. I got a lot of those. Starting with mom and ending with leaving. I’m only gonna make more, because as we’ve established, I’m a complete fuck up, and it’s honestly surprising it took this long to realise that.”

Stiles scratched at his jaw, awkwardly. “I guess what I wanted to say,” He said. “Is that I’m sorry.”

Stiles paused, again. “Sorry for everything. For dragging you into the woods that night, for all the lies, for Allison, for Donovan and Josh – who you don’t know about, by the way, and I guess I might as well tell you that Theo killed him so he wouldn’t kill me, then the bastard blackmailed me, the fucker, if I knew his number I’d give him a piece of my mind –“ (he does know his number and he is going to do so, of course, but what’s one more white lie?) “-but whatever.”

Stiles shook his head. “I guess you’re right. And that mom was right, all those years ago.”

Stiles swallowed. “I’m a killer.” He said, and the words felt wrong but they were true, all the same. “But I’m not a monster. And even if I’m not a True Alpha, I can do the right thing occasionally.”

Stiles closed his eyes, blew out a slow breath. “I don’t know where I’m headed.” He said. “You’ll look even if I tell you not to, so I won’t. It’ll save me the disappointment.”

Stiles stared out the window of his motel room.

“At least give me a month’s head start, yeah?” Stiles asked, the corner of his lips quirking upwards. “And a bit morbidly echoing of my previously possessed self… Am ok. Please don’t look for me. But I won’t be back.”

Stiles sighed. “But this time… it really is from me. That wasn’t from me, you know? The nogitsune would have died that night if I had, I’m sure of it. But whatever. The point is… really, this time, please don’t look for me.” Stiles swallowed. “I know when it’s best to…”

Stiles sighed. “Who am I kidding? I know when I’m not needed. I know when I’m not wanted. I know when my presence will fuck everything up for everyone.”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m okay,” Stiles said. “I really am. And since this is goodbye – forever…” Stiles trailed off.

“I love ya, Scotty,” Stiles said. “Please don’t set Melissa on me if you do find me.”

And with that, Stiles ended the voicemail. 

* * *

 

Santa Clarita was only supposed to be a pit stop for Stiles. He came here for some food and some rest, but it’s not far away _enough._ And it’s too busy, too much of a city, but it’s suburban enough that neighbours are nosy and people ask _questions._

He was sitting on a bench on the sidewalk eating a burger when a girl dropped down onto the seat next to him. She was around Liam’s age – sixteen, give or take. It was only two years ago he was her age, but it feels like forever.

“You look new.” She said. “And you’ve been staring at either my house or nothing for the last half hour, not even eating your burger.”

The girl looked at him, expectantly. So maybe he’d been dwelling, what of it?

“I ate my curly fries.” Stiles defended.

“Why have you been staring at my house?” The girl demanded, ignoring him, rudely.

“I haven’t,” Stiles said. “I was just thinking.”

“Smells like manpain,” She said. “Lemme hear it.”

“I don’t-“ Stiles protested, “I’m not _Derek.”_

“Whoever this Derek is, is he part of your problem?” She asked.

Stiles snorted. “If you call abandoning town when his friends need him to not be fucking useless and broody for once in his later years part of my problem, then yeah.”

Stiles had always found it easier to talk to strangers or people he didn’t like. After all, he didn’t exactly care one whit about what they think of him.

“Sounds lame,” She said. “I’d hit him with a tray.”

“He’d deserve it,” Stiles said. “I cannot count the number of times he used to resort to physical violence against my very innocent person. It was rude. Of course, he did it to everyone, but I was very fragile at sixteen.”

“Interesting.” She said. “How old is this guy?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles said. “And I have no idea where he plus I don’t care, so I never asked and I will never ask.”

“Fair.” She said. “If he was an adult hitting teenagers, though, we’ve got a problem.”

“He’s not so bad, really,” Stiles said. “I mean, I don’t care much for the guy but Scott does and I respect him enough to care whether Derek lives or dies, you know? And we saved each other’s lives a few times – I’m still higher on the amount than him, I think – which are enough times that I trust him not to kill me.”

“It sounds like the people you hang around with aren’t the best.” The girl said.

“No, they’re _great,”_ Stiles said, meaning it. “I’m the one who’s not great. S’why I left.”

“I see.” She said. “And what are your plans?”

“Move around.” He said. “Travel the country. An… an extended road trip that lasts my whole life, if you will.”

Maybe he’ll get eaten by a wendigo, or possessed again, or even turned and go Omega and feral and then be killed by a hunter. It’d be his luck, really.

“Sounds lonely.” She said. The girl looked at him, assessing. “What happened?”

“I can’t really say,” Stiles said, apologetically. “I mean…. It was bad.”

“And nobody stood by you?”

“If you count blackmail, then technically,” Stiles said, bitterly. “But I never got around to telling anyone. He just… found out.”

The one person who Stiles just _knew_ could never know, and Scott found out. And Theo blackmailed Stiles, and Stiles is so fucking _done._

The girl sat there, quietly, for a moment.

“You gonna eat that?” She asked.

Stiles looked down at his burger.

“No,” He said, sadly. He’d paid for this.

“Alright,” She said and took it from him. Yeah, sure, whatever. Let the kid have it.

There was silence for a bit as she munched away. Then…

“Something happened to my mom.” She said. “And we stood by her.” She glanced at him. “She’s ill,” The girl gestured, in a vague way. “I guess.” The girl paused again, stared at the burger like it would give her all the answers she needed at this moment.

Stiles felt a pang of empathy.

“I get you,” Stiles said. “It’s probably not the same,” Since his mom died and she’s acting like she’s still alive, using the present tense and all, “But I get you.”

The girl snorted. “It’s _definitely_ not the same.” She said. “The illness is Serbian. Came here through some bad clams.” The girl looked at him, deadly serious. “Never eat at Japopo’s.”

“Alright,” Stiles agreed.

“Or anywhere that still has Ruby’s Clams in stock,” She added, still serious. “They’re infected.”

“Well I don’t like clams,” Stiles said, “So…”

The girl nodded, satisfied. “Good.” She said, and that was that. She finished eating her burger and stood up.

Stiles didn’t really have anywhere to go or anything to do – he’d left his jeep at the auto repair shop, and he’d walked here, and it’d be most of the day to fix that mess of a car.

He has the money – just enough. This guy is much better than the one that died back in Beacon. He feels bad about thinking that, but there’s nothing he can really do about it. Since he was, y’know, murdered, and all.

(Right in front of him. That wasn’t fun to watch.)

The girl stares at him for a moment. It’s slightly unnerving, and he fidgets a little.

“You need a shower.” She said. “My parents are weird, they’ll let you borrow ours.”

And with that, she grabs his arm and drags him into the house across the street. He could protest, but he can’t really be bothered.

“Also, our neighbours are cops,” She said. “One’s a sheriff’s deputy –” Another pang, this time of pain and regret (not that the empathy pang wasn’t tinged with that, too) “- and the other’s Santa Monica police.”

“Alright,” Stiles said. Yeah, staying here would be a _bad_ idea.

“So,” She continued, “You don’t wanna be caught loitering. Rick’s nice but Anne’s intense.” She paused. “If you say you work with mom and dad – Sheila and Joel – she’d get off your back about it, though.”

“Uhm, why?” Stiles asked.

“They’re good friends,” She shrugged. “Help each other out with… stuff.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, awkwardly.

“Mom!” the girl shouted. “Dad!”

Two people – an older man with dark brown hair and eyes and a woman with honey blonde hair and hazel eyes. The girl’s parents, then.

“Honey,” The man said, “Why is there a stranger in our house?”

“I found a stray.” The girl said. “In desperate need of a shower and some sleep.”

Was it that obvious? Probably. Stiles hasn’t bothered to check.

He does take offence at being called a stray, though.

“He does look a bit under the weather.” The woman says. “And the bathrooms free so…”

“Well,” The girl grins, claps her hands. “It’s upstairs, not hard to find.”

The man tilts his head and smiles. It looks nervous.

“Of course,” He said. “Let’s let the stranger into our bathroom.”

Stiles does agree, though.

“I didn’t wander in,” He finds the need to defend himself. “I was perfectly happy sitting on a bench outside and eating my burger.”

“Which you weren’t going to eat and would have been a waste.” The girl says. “So I took his burger and in payment, he gets to use our bathroom and maybe nap in the basement.”

That doesn’t sound vaguely worrisome _at all._

“Please clarify for the guy with anxiety what _exactly_ you mean by me going down into your basement?” Stiles asked.

“We have a bed down there,” The woman says. “Its better than a couch.”

“I’ll give you that!” The man says, brightly, but he still looks nervous and strained. Honestly, he looks like what Stiles feels like a lot of the time. Stiles guesses he’s just better at hiding it.

“Now, before dad can weird you out any more than he already has,” The girl says, “I’m Abby, these are my weird parents, the bathroom is upstairs.”

Stiles nodded. After a beat, he grimaced and wandered on up the staircase.

What the fuck is his life, honestly.

“Why did you bring a _stranger_ into our house, which I might remind you, still has your mother’s _leftovers_ inside the fridge?” Joel asked, slightly desperate sounding.

“Just relax, smoke some weed,” Abby said, easily, “I’ve got it all under control.”

“How old is he?” Sheila asked, frowning at the staircase he’d disappeared up. “Like, really, could you tell?”

“Anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five,” She said. “Maybe older. Kinda looks like those actors that TV thinks actually resemble teenagers but... nope. They don't.”

Joel nodded, distantly.

“Why did you bring him into our house, Abby?” Sheila asked.

“Because he was alone,” She admitted, after a moment. “Because he’d had that burger for half an hour and hadn’t eaten it. Because he’d left home for reasons omitted which included something terrible that the people around him couldn’t support.”

“Which means he could be my next meal?” Sheila offered.

“No,” Abby said, annoyed. “Which means he’s like _you_ without _us,_ mom.”

“Oh.” Sheila paused as if she was thinking about that. After a moment, she looked saddened. “We’re keeping him,” She said, decidedly.

“He’s not a pet,” Joel said, exasperated. “Can you _not?”_

“Nope,” Abby said. “Face it, dad, we’re taking in strays.”

“Why.” Joel sighed. “Just… why.” But really, Abby knew he wasn’t against it. If mom hadn’t had them… god. If this guy had something similar but not quite as extreme happen to him, then maybe they could help. After all, not killing him immediately is an improvement, and really, helping someone ought to balance out all the death – even if it is usually of people who deserve said death. Like young single Hitlers.

Even the ones in wheelchairs.

* * *

 

“So,” Malia said. “Stiles is gone.”

Scott nodded. Malia pursed her lips but didn’t say anything – she didn’t need to. Scott could smell it, and he placed a hand on her arm and squeezed, lightly. “We’ll get him back,” He promised.

“He doesn’t want to be gotten back.” She returned. “You heard him.”

“He’s hurting.”

“And whose fault is that?” She snapped, then sighed, and closed her eyes briefly.

“Mine,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “Ours. All of ours. His, too, for being an idiot that never tells us things he really should.”

Scott allowed the slightest of quirks upwards to his lips.

Malia nodded. “We need to give him time.” She said.

“… One month,” Scott said. “The Sheriff’s tracking his trail – he’s not really leaving one, but since it’s the Sheriff’s kid people are quicker to tell him the truth about his missing son. Anyway – he’s gonna keep an eye on where he is. If he surfaces in a month, we’ll go looking.”

Malia nodded again and squeezed his arm in return.

“Things are only gonna get worse,” She said, bluntly. “My mom’s gonna be here soon, Theo’s building his pack and planning something big, the beast is still out there and we still don’t know who it is, and Stiles is missing on his own terms.”

“At least we’ve got Lydia,” Scott said.

“And we’re losing Kira.” Malia retorted.

“What’s your point?” Scott asked, a little quiet. He didn’t want to think about that.

“I’m leaving when my mom is dead.” She said. “Beacon Hills has made it’s point; it doesn’t want us here.”

Scott waited as she paused to collect her thoughts.

“After my mom’s dead,” She said, “I’m inviting all of you to come with me. We’ll look for Stiles, sure, but it’s mostly to get away.”

“You’re not going to kill her,” Scott said. “I can’t-“

“You can’t have another of your friends be a murderer?” Malia sked. “I get that. I do. But Stiles didn’t murder Donovan.”

“What?” Scott asked.

“You never asked. I never asked. None of us ever asked.” She paused. “We should have. We know Stiles, he’d never tell us anything he thinks he _has_ to keep a secret.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“There was a bite on his shoulder,” Malia said. “A scar. It looked painful.”

Scott remembered Stiles wincing, rubbing at his shoulder and claiming various injuries.

“You knew?” HE asked. Malia nodded. “I guessed.” She said. “He never got around to telling anyone and I never got around to asking him because everything was going so badly, and I couldn’t figure out the words that wouldn’t make it worse.”

“What?” Scott asked, bewildered.

“We were breaking apart,” She said, and there’s a sadness she’s too good at hiding.

“All of us,” She added, “But… I know we were headed to a break-up. And… I didn’t want to speed that along.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said.

“No.” She shook her head. “I am. And Stiles is. But none of that’s really anything to do with you.”

She gave him steely eyes, and he winced. “But if you tell my boyfriend not to worry about me ever again, I will break your kneecaps.”

“You didn’t break up?” Scott asked, wincing.

“We did.” She said. “I just refuse to accept being broken up with over a phone call. If he’s going to do it, he’s doing it in person – and then, at that point, will I move on.”

“Why?” Scott asked.

“I never said it,” She said. “He never said it.”

“Oh,” Scott said.

“But he said it on the voicemail.” She admitted, tone slightly softer. “And I’m not giving up on our happiness. Not ever.”

Scott nodded, slowly.

“So even though things are only gonna get worse from here,” Malia said. “You gotta keep going. Because Stiles is out there, somewhere, and he needs some sense knocking into him.”

“Maybe not literally,” Scott says, but he’s smiling slightly.

“We didn’t exactly have the best first second meeting,” Malia said, “I punched him. If he can handle that, slapping him once for being an ass should be fine.”

“why did you _punch_ him?” Scott asked.

“I didn’t wanna be human and it was easier to blame him for that than blame myself for my family’s death,” She said. “Don’t worry, I’d never actually hurt him.”

Scott nodded. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Explains the shock,” She says, but she’s smiling a little. “Come on, Scott.” She said. “Let’s go find Kira.”

* * *

 

“Malia.”

Malia turned around and glared at the Chimera. All their problems started with his arrival, and now she knows why, and it just hurts. She’d nearly trusted him, even though she didn’t like him (but she had liked him too much, really, and now she knows that that was just the werecoyote part of him she cared for) and he’d ruined everything she’d tried to build over the months she’s been back.

She just wanted to graduate. She just wanted to graduate and go to college (maybe) and date her boyfriend and hang out with the pack and be somewhat normal and maybe even eventually go to therapy. That’s it. She just wanted to grow, to become an adult, to not have any more death and pain and darkness in her life.

But here, standing in the hall so she can’t attack him, is the source of all their newfound problems.

“Theo.” She returned, coolly.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Theo asked.

“No.” She growled lightly. “What do you want?”

“I have some information you might need,” He said, and he’s smirking like he always is.

“Like what?” She asked, warily.

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to Stiles,” He said. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t want all of you dead. Just Scott.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Malia demanded.

“You weren’t my first choice,” Theo admitted, freely. “But my first choice skipped town. So, I have some information, and a bargain to make.”

“Which is?” She prodded.

“I’ll help you with your mother,” He smirked. “And you’ll help me find Stiles.”

“Why?” She asked.

“Because I think he’ll want to know something eventually,” Theo said. “Part of my plan, as it were. And he’s going to want to know it _badly_. Otherwise, someone’s going to die.”

Helpful. Fuck this guy, really.

“Who?” She demands.

“Depends on his decision.” Theo shrugs. “It’s a choice of two – and, don’t worry. You aren’t one of them.”

“Comforting,” She snapped.

“I imagine it is,” He said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Because I have a feeling between his father and anyone, he’d always pick the former.”

Malia stared as he walked past, as the bell rang, and as he turned the corner and disappeared from her sight.

She growled and punched a locker, shaking and angry. Lydia and Scott found her like that, staring at the locker she’d punched. They pull her out of sight, down a corridor, and into a classroom.

She tells them what Theo had told her, full well knowing he’d probably wanted her to. And would have a plan if he hadn’t.

* * *

 

That night, Theo shows up at her house.

“What do you want?” She snapped.

“I’m giving you the information.” He said. “I give you info, and help you with your mother, and you come with me to find Stiles – as both bait and a bargaining chip.”

“Of course,” She snarled. “You _would.”_

“I have plans,” He said. “I’m not letting someone’s free will ruin them.”

“What are your plans?” She snapped.

“I was gonna tell Stiles,” He said. “Bring out the void. Get him to _snap._ But he’s not here, and I don’t really care much about doing that to you since you’ve already done it to yourself.”

She’s going to kill her mother. It’s not fun that Theo agrees with that choice, but there’s nothing else she can do.

“The claws will kill her no matter what you do,” Theo says, changing the subject. “So just take everything that you can and then some.”

Malia nodded, slowly.

“I had Donovan tail Stiles to the edge of Cali,” He said. “And don’t worry, he was under _very_ strict orders. If he’d done anything, trust me, I’d have done worse than kill him.”

“Why do you care?” She demanded, exploded out with.

“That’s private,” He warned. “But… I suppose I can tell you what I was going to tell him.

“I came for a pack,” He starts, “For the werecoyote who’s first instinct is to kill,” He grins slightly at her, eyes sharp. “For the banshee, the girl surrounded by death, for the beta with anger issues, the dark kitsune.” He took a short pause. “I came for Void! Stiles – _that_ is the pack that I want.”

He smirked, slightly. Malia punched him in the face.

“You will leave my best friends and my boyfriend _alone.”_ She threatened.

“Or what?” He asked. “You’ll kill me? That just proves my point, and you’ll never find Stiles.”

Why would I need _you_ to find Stiles?”

“Because I might have had Donovan follow him further than out of Cali,” Theo said, then spat out some blood and cracked his nose back into place from where it had healed broken. “I know where he is. You’re just coming as… insurance, shall we say. An incentive to come back when I tell him to.”

“You’re not giving him a choice.” She said.

“Of course, I am,” Theo said. “You die or he returns. That’s a choice.”

“You said I wasn’t part of the two he had to choose between.”

“You aren’t,” Theo said. “Change of plans. The sheriff isn’t going to nearly die.”

“Why?” She asked. “Why change your plans?”

“Because,” Theo shrugged. “It’s too risky. If Noah died, well….” There was a flicker of emotion across his face that Malia didn’t recognise, but she knew the scent well.

“He’d never agree to join me. And then _everything_ falls through.”

“Fine.” She snapped. “You help me with my mom, and with Stiles, which in turn helps you get access to the claws after I’ve used them, and –” She snarled in disgust. “Whatever it is you want with us.”

“Deal.” He smiles. It’s a lot like a deal with the devil, and really, it is one, and Malia just hopes it’s not going to blow up in her face quite as spectacularly as she’s expecting.

* * *

 

Donovan is stupid, of course, Theo knows that. Maybe not academically – he’s never checked – but he’s so much of a fucking idiot it makes Theo angry and itch to do something violent towards the man in question.

How old is Donovan again?

Whatever.

The point is, that Theo knows if Donovan tried anything, Stiles would beat him. All the chimeras that came back from the dead – they’re a little off, resilience wise, but not enough to worry about unless dealing with someone like Stiles or Malia or Lydia.

Scott wouldn’t kill them, so the point is moot for him, and Kira wouldn’t kill them unless the fox took over and at that point, it isn’t really her anyway, so the point is moot there. Liam isn’t trained enough and he’s too young still, really, so he doesn’t count, either.

Anyway – Stiles would beat Donovan. He wouldn’t beat Josh or Tracey or Hayden (not that Hayden truly listens to Theo, which is… frustrating) but he _could_ beat Donovan, and now that’s he’s convinced he’s a murderer anyway thanks to Scott’s wonderful reaction and Theo’s own subtle manipulations, well, all is going to plan. If he kills Donovan, that just confirms it, and if Donovan tries literally anything on Stiles, Theo can bring Stiles back and hurt Donovan in ways Donovan probably doesn’t even think are _possible._

(Theo’s not stupid. He’s got quite a bit of the serum hidden away.)

Nobody ruins Theo’s plans and gets away with it. But Stiles hasn’t exactly ruined his plans – they just need a little adjusting, and besides…

It makes things interesting.

* * *

 


	2. Shall I show you the basement?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Part of) The first day, and a voicemail.

Stiles didn't exactly mean to eavesdrop (who is he kidding, of course, he did) but once he'd finished in the bathroom and put his old - and, yeah, pretty bad smelling - clothes back on, he heard the strange family talking. He didn't catch every word, since he was upstairs and didn't want to be seen or heard, but...

It sounded like they were planning on giving him some sort of reason to stay. Here. In their basement. Which is not in any way, shape, or form, actually creepy. 

Nope. Not happening. He's thankful for the shower, sure, but - he's not staying in some strange family's basement. For all he knows, they could be genuinely awful people. 

(And also - murderers should not get these kinds of creature comforts; a nice suburban house to stay in, a shower, a kind - if strange and nervous - family, et cetera. They should be in some form of prison, right, so - self-imposed. Stiles killed someone, Stiles will admit now, to himself, that he doesn't really feel anything at all about Josh's death except anger at Theo for using it to blackmail him, and -

Well. Stiles  _remembers.)_

 

(So. He's going to say no, and he's going to leave. Easy.)

Stiles went downstairs and halted at the small crowd of five that had congregated at the base of the staircase. 

"Quick question," Abby said, "Are you between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five?"

"I'm eighteen," Stiles admits, slowly, eyes fixed on the sheriff's deputy in full uniform standing with the strange family and a random sixteen-year-old kid who's probably the girl's friend or potential SO. Or actual SO. 

"This is my friend-boyfriend-love interest Eric," Abby said, as an introduction, "And that's Anne."

"Garcia," Anne smiles. "Anne Garcia."

"Stiles," Stiles admits. It's not like anyone can trace  _that_ name, anyway. It's a nickname based on his last name, and though he doesn't know the popularity of Stilinski, it doesn't really tell them very much about him - especially since they don't know that it's based on his last name in the first place.

Anne raised her eyebrows at him, slightly. 

"It's nice to meet you, Stiles." She said. "Well, since he's eighteen, he's not technically a runaway." She told the family. "So if he does stay here, you won't get charged with kidnapping."

The woman looks over him. 

"How exactly can he-"

"Well," the blonde lady interrupts Anne, and smiles at Stiles, a little too bright. "Shall I show you the basement?"

"Mom," Abby sighs. "Stop. I'll go. C'mon, Eric. And you," She gestures to Stiles, who assess each of them before nodding, warily, and skirting around the small group once he reaches the ground floor. Then, he follows the teenager into the basement - _such a terrible idea, Stiles, c'mon_ \- But it's not that bad. 

There are some chains hidden in the corner, sure, but they could be for anything. 

... Yeah, he's doomed. 

Abby gestures to the bed. "There's where you'll be sleeping." She states. "That cupboard there," She gestures to a cupboard on the far side of the room, "Can hold your inevitable belongings, I guess."

"Inevitable?"

"Yeah this invitation to live here is... pretty much as permanent as you want it to be," She said. "Mom will probably get itchy about this place not looking live-inable and more importantly since she's a realtor, not sellable soon - so you might get some other furniture. And a room divider."

Stiles nodded, warily.

"They're nice people." Eric offers. "The Hammonds."

So. Abby Hammond. the other two Hammonds. This Eric kid. Anne Garcia.

Okay. Then. 

"I - won't be here for long," Stiles said. "So... that's not needed, but - okay."

"Yeah something's gonna inevitably come up, and then you'll be here longer than you expect, and then something even more insane is going to happen and -" Eric stops himself and shrugs, awkwardly. "You might be here longer than you think, is all." He says. 

Unlikely, Stiles thinks, and he says this. 

"We'll see," Abby says. "Trust me... it gets crazy around here pretty easily. More than you'd expect from a suburban area."

"Maybe not so much," Stiles said. "Trust  _me -_ when that happens, I am leaving."

"...Yeah." Abby said, drawn out and disbelieving. " _Sure."_

* * *

When Malia sees she's gotten a voicemail - ten minutes before Scott found his and three minutes after the Sheriff got his own version - Malia sees that it's from Stiles, who she can't find, and -

She listens. 

"Hey," His voice crackles through, a shitty phone with a shitty mic and low sound quality - which she knows is not his phone, so. That's something to worry about, potentially, unless he just broke his old one. 

"First of all," He starts, properly. "I'm going to preemptively say I'm sorry, for what I'm about to say." Another pause, quiet breathing. The mic's too shitty to pick up things in the background other than static-y white noise. (The static increases when he breathes out, and that's how she knows he's just sitting there, quietly breathing, and thinking through what he's going to say to her.)

"And I'm sorry I never told you about Donovan," Stiles says, and it's Malia's turn to pause her train of thought, and just - simply listen closer. "Scott's probably told you all about it now, I'm - God, I hope he hasn't. I hope you hear this first."

Stiles let out a humourless chuckle, and he always hesitates to do that (and she thinks it's something to do with the nogitsune) and that's more worrying than anything else, right now, even the Donovan thing. 

Because Malia can't blame him for that. Can't hate him, can't feel bad, can't do much of anything. Because - in truth, a truth she will bluntly admit to anyone who asks -  _it doesn't matter to her._ She  _saw_ the bite on his shoulder, watched it fester and scar over and -

Donovan hurt  _Stiles._ She can't feel sorry that he's dead, can't feel anything but relief that her boyfriend  _isn't._

It doesn't matter to her, because in all the things she's learnt since she's returned, something the Sheriff told her stuck. 

It was self-defence. Stiles didn't have much of a choice, fighting someone like Donovan, who was in so many ways less than Stiles but when it comes to violence, and in those moments that night, the important things were  _strength_ and  _bloodlust,_ and a human can never beat a supernatural creature on the former - and Stiles isn't like that for the latter. Donovan  _is,_ or  _was,_ though, and that was enough. Enough to make him dangerous. Enough to make it obvious that what happened that night would mean the death of either Stiles or Donovan himself. 

But Stiles is _smarter._ And  _that_ waswhat  _saved_ his  _fucking life._

(At least - maybe. Maybe it was luck. She can't know, she wasn't there -  _she should have been there._ But there's no point dwelling on that, because, well, Stiles is still alive. And Donovan isn't.)

So no. She can't care much that Donovan is dead. It doesn't matter to her - it would be horribly hypocritical if it did. She's planning on killing her mother, that much is true. Mainly because, once again - there is no other way. Corrine won't stop trying to kill Malia until either one of them is dead, and Malia can't let Corrine do that, and nor can she let the Desert Wolf get any more power than she already has; become even  _more_ of a feared assassin. 

Stiles continued, and Malia quickly returned her full attention to whatever he had to say next. 

"So... Donovan's dead. I killed him." Stiles said and paused again. "Josh is dead, too, but that's Theo's fault. Well. Doing. Josh's fault for attacking me, I guess, my fault for hallucinating while I was being murdered." He paused. "Didn't - not a scratch. I was fine, sorry, that probably worried you."

Malia let out a breath. Yeah, it had. 

"Okay," Stiles breathed, slowly. "So. Josh, Donovan. Both dead. Theo, me. Figured you should know before -" Stiles stopped, and the static increased, and it didn't sound the same as when he breathed over the mic - maybe he was shaking his head slightly?

"Well." Stiles paused. "Nevermind. The point is..." Stiles trailed off.

"I had - a... an argument with Scott." He admits. His voice is calm, in that eerie kind of calm someone might get when they're trying not to make what they're feeling obvious, but Malia knows Stiles, knows him  _well,_ and she knows if he was here, right now, in front of her, she'd be able to smell pain and regret and guilt and a multitude of other things. 

"...There were a few stipulations," Stiles said. "Sort of. Don't worry about Lydia, don't worry about Malia, talk to your dad." Stiles paused. "As you can probably tell, I have done... about none of those things.

"Um," Stiles continued, "So... I'm sorry I'm not there to worry about you like I normally do when you're off doing something that involves violence and I'm also off doing something that involves violence which I don't take part in more because if I did they'd probably break my neck faster than I could actually throw a punch but..." Stiles paused. "But, uhm...

"I guess I should say it," Stiles said. "Because - I never did, even - even when I wanted to and I should have because I meant it and maybe we wouldn't -" Stiles cut himself off. "It doesn't matter, anyway, since... well. But - I..."

Stiles breathed out. "I love you," He told her. 

Malia froze. 

"I really do." He let out. "I love you, Malia Tate, but - " Stiles paused.

But. 

"We can't exactly be together if I'm not... there," Stiles said. "Malia I -" Stiles paused again. "I love you." Stiles said, again, like now he'd said it once he found it easier to say. "And this is the most shit thing I've ever done, but because I love you - I'm breaking up with you. Because you - God, you deserve someone so much better than I could ever be.

"If we ever cross paths again," Stiles said, "Feel free to punch me in the face. Again." Stiles paused. "I'd deserve it. More than that, but, well, you are a werecoyote so, uhm. One should be painful enough."

Malia closed her eyes. 

"I'm sorry," Stiles said again, and she could hear it in his voice how much he meant those words. The apology, the love, the reasons he's leaving. Not that he really explained why he's leaving - but Malia isn't stupid. She can gather things from what her boyfriend (because Malia is  _not_ accepting being broken up with  _over a voicemail)_ doesn't say. 

"But please don't look for me." He said. And then the voicemail cut off, and Malia was standing in an empty house, quiet, and alone. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literally the voicemail made me sad so leaving this alone for a bit yikes


	3. It'd be easier if that was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has a non-linear structure; bits and pieces across the whole timeline of the fic aside from the very end will be strewn about until we get to that point and the timelines of Beacon and Santa Clarita sync up and start being told in a linear fashion.

Four days have passed, and Stiles is getting used to Santa Clarita.

Four days is much longer than he'd first expected to be staying here for, but. It's just... easier. His car is still in the shop, anyway, and it's gonna be another two days at least before he can get it back, because apparently some idiot broke into the place and messed around with a bunch of shit.

Unfortunate. But - something Stiles can use as an excuse in his own head as to why he hasn't left yet. 

Stiles wakes up, early, on this Monday. When he went out yesterday to check on his jeep's progress and found out about the previously mentioned break-in, the Hammond's had bought him a room divider. Stiles thinks that each few days he stays, they're gonna add more creature comforts until this basement is more like an actual room someone would sleep in.

The chains are gone from the corner, too. That lowers his anxiety levels a little, but not by much.

Speaking of Anxiety - Stiles is out of his medication for said thing and his ADHD. It was inevitable; Stiles hadn't planned leaving, so he hadn't packed. But it does mean that, since he doesn't have his prescription with him...

Well. Stiles can't exactly get any more. Not easily, anyway.

Stiles sighed. He was lucky to have enough for four days, anyway.

"Oh, good, you're awake." He hears from the direction of the staircase. When he turns to look, he sees Abby sat halfway down and leaning on the railing. 

"That I am," Stiles confirms. "What are you doing - it's like, six-am," Stiles starts asking, "that's way earlier than you normally get up... anyway - so yeah, what are you doing in here this early?"

"Couldn't stay asleep," She shrugs. Stiles sits up and leans against a post, rests his arms on his knees. "Alright," Stiles says. 

"Do you ever get nightmares about things that you're okay with when you're awake but apparently your brain is like 'fuck that shit'?" Abby asks. "Because it's annoying."

"Nightmares are spawned from literally anything." Stiles tells her. "Even stuff you aren't scared of or don't consciously worry about. So, yeah, occasionally."

Since most of the time his brain has enough content he really is worried about or afraid of in some way, shape, or form to work with. 

Abby nods, slowly. "Okay," She says. "I guess that makes sense."

Stiles shrugs. "It's just what I've experienced."

"How is your stock, anyway?" Abby asks.

"What?" Stiles blinks at her.

"Your meds," She says, frankly. "Are you out or what?"

"... Out," Stiles sighs. "How'd you know?"

"You might only take them out of sight," Abby says, "But that doesn't mean anything, really. You don't know if you're completely out of sight, after all."

"I guess so," Stiles says. 

"Anyway, mom just wants to know which ones you take," She says. "And then she'll ask dad to go get them for you."

"I can deal," Stiles says. "It's no issue, really."

"We don't want you having a panic attack or some shit and dying on us," Abby says, bluntly. "Let us buy you your damn meds."

"I have some money," Stiles said, reaching over for his gym bag of belongings. 

"Yeah, no." Abby says. "Keep that. It's all you've got - think of this as a housewarming gift, or something."

"I just -"

"Get a job if you're that worried about owing us stuff," Abby says, rolling her eyes. 

He would. But that's not the best idea.

"See?" she points at him, "See, I can see that expression on your face."

"I  _would,"_ Stiles said, "But that would be a really loud siren on the scale of letting people know where I am."

"And buying your own meds?" Abby asks, leading.

Stiles sighs, again. "... A pretty loud siren."

"See, I win the argument." Abby says, standing. "Dad'll get them for you."

"Fine," Stiles lets out. "Fine, whatever."

"Wasn't that hard, was it?" Abby grins, and absconds up the staircase. 

Stiles slides his back down the post until he's lying against the mattress again.

So. This is his life, now.

(It's... kind of nice, being around people that don't  _know._

About Donovan, about the supernatural, about his mom, about the nogitsune. It's... kinda refreshing. Not having to worry constantly about what they think of him because of all of that.)

* * *

The fight Malia had with her mother went about as planned, and about as far from the plan as it could have gotten.

See... the plan was to kill her with the claws. That happened. The plan was to trap her in Stiles' house with Malia so said fight could commence.

That... didn't happen.

(Fuck. Theo. Raeken.)

Malia looks around the warehouse. She's got a fair few cuts on her face that have almost healed, a few gunshot wounds that are painful as fuck but not lethal, and the glowing blue claws buried deep in her mother's gut. 

Malia pulls her hand free, and jogs over to Braeden. 

"Are you ok?" She asks.

"Fine," the woman says, standing from her spot behind a car. She's limping - her leg got clipped by a shot meant for Malia - but other than that, her wounds are superficial. "Did it work?"

Malia breathes and focuses, feels for her strength and power. "Yeah." She says, quietly. "It worked."

Braeden nods, reloading her gun. "Good," She said. "It's done, then."

"Are you going back to Derek now, then?" Malia asked.

"Yeah." Braeden smiled, slightly. "He should be near Oregon by now, with Cora."

Malia nodded. "Thanks for the help."

"It helped me to help you." Braeden said. "But know that I would have done it even if that wasn't the case. Someone like her..." Braeden shook her head. "Even if you could have taken her powers without killing her, someone like her would continue to hurt the lives of those around until the day they died."

Malia nodded, slowly.

"What are you going to do now?" Braeden asked.

"Help Scott with the Beast." Malia told her. "And... leave."

"Good." Braeden said. "Don't get stuck here."

"I won't," Malia promised. 

* * *

Malia arrives as Theo's being sucked into the ground. 

"He knows where he is," She bursts out. The others turn to look at her. "He knows where Stiles is."

Scott looks torn. Kira just looks confused.

"Kira." Malia says, surprised. Kira smiles at her. "I'm only here for this," She says, sadly. "But it's good to see you."

Malia nods, as she looks at the sword the kitsune is holding. 

"So... he's in there?" Malia asks.

"I think so, yeah," Kira nods. "It's good to see you too," Malia offers, before she adds, "And - So, Theo's in there, but he knows where Stiles is. I'm pretty sure."

"Pretty sure?" Scott asks. "We need more than that." Lydia sighs. "I'm sorry but we do."

"He told me." Malia says. "That he had Donovan follow Stiles out of Cali. Donovan must have told him  _something."_

"We can't just let him out," Kira says, and she looks regretful. "He needs to stay in there for a little while, at least while the sword gets used to him and figures out what it needs to show Theo."

"Okay," Malia says, "How long will that take?"

"Maybe three months?" Kira offers, reluctant. "I'm not sure."

"Okay," Malia says. "He has a one-month head start, we search for two and a half months, and if we can't find him, we ask Theo."

"He'll lie," Scott says, sadly. "Even if he knows, he'll lie."

Malia grimaces at the sword. "Y'know, I don't think he will."

"Why?" Scott asks. Lydia purses her lips. 

"He wanted you dead," Malia says, "But not the rest of us. He shot me, left Lydia comatose in the preserve. Tried o get Liam to kill Scott via a large amount of manipulation, killed most of his pack. But as far as I'm aware, the worst he did to Stiles was blackmail." She took a breath. "I asked the sheriff what really happened to Donovan, and he told me what Theo told him."

"Which is?" Lydia prompts. "Theo lied to the sheriff." Malia says. "Took the blame for the kill."

"Okay," Scott says, "Why?"

"Who knows?" Malia asks. "The only person we could ask we won't be able to for three and a half months.

"And, he killed Josh," She adds, "Theo. When Josh tried to kill Stiles."

"So he killed Josh twice?" Lydia asks.

"Pretty much, yeah." Malia pauses. "And when he talked to me, about finding Stiles, a few days ago..." She sighs. "I don't know. He was very insistent that he wouldn't let him get hurt."

"He was manipulating you," Lydia says. "Because he knows you care. He was trying to see if relating would work."

"Maybe," Malia says. "It'd be easier if that was true."

"You don't think so, though," Kira frowns, lightly. 

"Oh, I think he was manipulating me," Malia says, "I don't think he knows how to talk to people without doing  _that -_ no, what I mean is I think he was genuine about wanting to get Stiles back to Beacon Hills."

"Why?" Lydia persisted.

"He told me he wanted a pack," Malia said. "And the people he wanted in it, and Stiles was one of them."

Lydia considered this. "So you think he'd say the truth about where Stiles is?"

"Ninety percent," Malia says. "which is more certain than you can normally be with Theo."

"Okay," Scott says. "Okay. That's the plan, then. One month, then start searching. Two and a half months, then interrogate him," Scott gestures to the sword, "And then put him back in there."

"I was going to leave it with you anyway," Kira says, "So that should be fine." Kira hands the sword to Malia, who takes it very carefully. "Keep it safe," She asks of the werecoyote. "I need to be getting back."

"Will you be back any time soon?" Malia asks.

"If something the skinwalkers don't like goes down then probably," Kira offers. "But... they're difficult to figure out. I don't know."

"Okay," Malia says. "Well... be seeing you, then." Kira smiles sadly. The rest say their goodbyes too - Malia has to look away when it comes to Scott's turn, because - well. It's  _sad -_ and then Kira leaves them there.

"I guess we're done here, then," Lydia says, voice a little hoarse. "I should be getting home."

"We all should," Scott says. "We can... talk in the morning."

"It is morning," Malia says. "We'll talk later."

Scott nods, weary. They're all a little worse for wear - Malia's still got a bullet somewhere in her system, so she's going to go visit Melissa. But other than that... well. 

Now... now they're just gonna have to wait.

(A month is a long time, when you're anticipating something.)

* * *

Stiles stared around at the covered walls and floor.

"This is where we kill people." Sheila tells him, brightly.

"In a storage lot," Stiles says, bland. "This just gets worse."

"We're trying here," Sheila says, a little affronted. "It's not nearly as bad as you're making it out to be."

"Yeah it's been a day I'm still not over the cannibal  _zombie_ thing," Stiles tells her.

"Please stop that," Joel says, sighing. "She's dead, walking, and eats people." Stiles says, "It's the right term."

"It'd be like if we just referred to you as a spaz, though. It's not the right term and it's rude." Joel says. 

"Not quite, because I don't  _care,"_ Stiles says. "You do, that's the difference."

"So respect that," Sheila says. 

"Somebody once tried to eat my legs, okay, I'm not a fan of cannibals in general." Stiles says, "Wendigos,  **zombies,** fucking sick humans, whoever. Eating people is  **not okay."**

"You keep on mentioning things like that," Sheila says. "Like yesterday, before you left. That the undead aren't the only supernatural beings to exist."

"Yep," Stiles says. "That is the case."

"So what else exists?"

"Everything you can think of, I guess," Stiles says, "I mean, I've only met werewolves, werecoyotes, kitsunes, druids, darachs, chimeras, werejaguars, beserkers, wendigos, banshees, this - mouthless guy, a guy with a third eye -"

"Okay, we get it, you can stop now," Joel sighs, and rubs at his forehead. "That's a lot."

"And you," Stiles says, pointing at Sheila. "So, if evil clams exist, I figure most anything does."

"America's a melting pot, culture wise," Sheila muses, "So I guess it only makes sense the supernatural is the same."

"I guess," Stiles says. "I haven't met any vampires."

"Well, that's nice," Joel says, nervous-bright. "I wonder if they exist?"

"Maybe," Stiles says. "Maybe they're only in, like, Transylvania."

Sheila shrugs. Stiles shakes his head. "Stop taking advantage of my ADHD," He says, dismissively, " _you murder and eat people in a storage lot?"_ He demands. 

"We weren't," Joel defends. "And yes, that is the case. I don't - I don't eat people, obviously, but yeah."

"Great." Stiles says, sarcastic. "How wonderful."

"It is though," Sheila says, brightly. "Easy to clean, out of the way, very little foot traffic and nobody bothers you even if they do pass by."

" _Awesome,"_ Stiles says. "I'm packing my bags once we get back."

"Please don't," Sheila says. "It's been great, having you around. Abby considers you a good friend."

"Yeah, well, Abby's an accomplice to cannibalism." Stiles says. "She doesn't have the best judgement."

"That was rude," Joel says, lightly. 

"Please stop smiling like that," Stiles sighs. "Anne's painting doesn't even  _begin_ to capture the unnerving nature of it."

"Okay," Joel says, and doesn't stop smiling nervously.

* * *

Stiles is holding one end of the sofa, and Sheila is holding the other.

"Both of you are deceptively strong," Abby notes, as she follows them down to the basement.

"Yeah yeah," Stiles says. "Mock me all you want."

"She's not mocking," Eric chimes in, "At least I don't think."

"I'm not," Abby agrees.

"Well okay then," Stiles says. 

"Is it usually the case?" Sheila asks. "Not necessarily," Stiles says. He's just used to supernaturally strong people, and in comparison, Stiles might as well have no ability to do anything at all. It's a little hard to keep up, and maybe he's a little conscious of that. 

"It's a Saturday," Abby says, "And I've never used a gun. We should go to the range later."

"I veto that," Stiles says, "Last time I held a gun I dropped it."

"Literally how?" Abby asks. "Did the recoil surprise you, or?"

"Well, it was thrown at me," Stiles admits. "So I was surprised."

"Yeah, see, now that makes sense," Abby says. "Most people would have dropped it then."

"It was still - awkward." He said, awkwardly. 

"Embarrassing," Eric corrects. "I get you."

"So we'll go," Abby says, "Relieve you of any anxiety around handling a gun."

"I mean, knowing how to use one would be kind of cool," Stiles says. "I've always wanted to."

"Who threw it at you?" Eric asks. "See?" Abby says, "I told you he'd want to, mom. Pay up."

"Ex-US Marshal," Stiles tells Eric. "And - you bet on me wanting to go to a gun range?" He asks the two Hammond women.

"Only a dollar," Sheila states, and hands her daughter said amount of money.

"It was five, actually," Abby pockets the dollar. "Pay up."

"No it wasn't, don't lie to Stiles," Sheila says, easily. "Don't want that to become a habit."

"What?" Abby asks, "Lying or lying to Stiles in particular?"

"Either," Sheila says. They're just kind of standing at the bottom of the stairs by now, and they notice this, so the four of them move over to where the sofa is going to go.

"We're moving the bed," Sheila decides. "I'll draw up a room plan later."

"I'll help," Stiles says, "Since I'm staying down here, and all."

"Sounds like a plan," Eric comments. "Before or after the gun range, where I will be staying out of that section of the place so as not to burst my eardrums?"

"WImp," Abby says, "And I'd think after, right?"

"Yes, me and Joel have some more work to do to properly set up our real estate agency." Sheila says, as they put down the couch. Stiles nods. "Okay," He says. These people are far too nice to a stranger, he thinks, but he's not going to complain. It puts a roof over his head, and - well. Stiles experienced a week on the road... it's not fun.

And anyway. Prisons have beds and food and other people, so. In a way, he can pretend this works on that scale, if a lot nicer.

"You can help us out, actually, if you'd like," Sheila says.

"So long as my face isn't plastered anywhere, sure," Stiles says.

"We're choosing a place to have the shop," She tells him, "So people can come ask us for help and all that. We'll need at least one employee once that's set up, and it should only take a week or so - do you mind?"

"If I'm still here," Stiles says, sitting down. "Sure."

"Nice," Abby says. "And you will be, most definitely."

"I feel like I've been kidnapped," Stiles says, amused.

"You're too old for that," Abby says, helpfully. 

* * *

 

A month later, there's a breakout in Eichen. Malia thinks this should be important to them - as does Scott and Lydia - but she can't think about  _why._

Regardless - they start looking for Stiles. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! :D


End file.
